


Better To Burn Out (Than To Fade Away)

by thelimitsofthe_sea



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelimitsofthe_sea/pseuds/thelimitsofthe_sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She never wanted to be a hero.</p><p>She was fire and blood and passion and immediacy.</p><p>Like a wildcat, beautiful and hungry and dangerous.</p><p>She played her part brilliantly, start to finish.</p><p>He heard her laugh; deep and true and uninhibited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better To Burn Out (Than To Fade Away)

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics taken from If It Be Your Will, by Leonard Cohen; Javert's Soliloquy, Les Mis; Carmen, by Lana Del Rey, What The Water Gave Me and Falling, by Florence + The Machine.

 

 _from this broken hill, all your praises they shall ring_  
  
Cassie was starting to wish that she had just worn her usual attire of ripped jeans and gumboots. Sure, it might have raised some eyebrows,but Rachel probably would have understood. She felt unnatural in the crisp blouse and dress slacks, and the starchy material was itchy against her skin. Besides, she found the necessity for dour shades of black and grey rather ridiculous; as though solemn clothing somehow makes your grief more authentic. She was pretty sure that if Rachel were there she would have thought the same. In fact, knowing Rachel, she would have been rolling her eyes at the excessive pomp of the affair. TV cameras were filming the event, and politicians and celebrities were clustered around the tombstone, crying and leaning on each other for support. _What a shame, what a pity_ ,  they would tell the cameras afterwards, _that a sixteen year old girl would have to sacrifice her life for our freedom_. Cassie had shaken a congressman's manicured hand before the service, and listened to him say with a bleached white smile, and what was supposed to be a comforting air,that "All of America, hell, all of the _world_ , is sharing in your grief today." Cassie had whispered back some soft words of thanks, but behind her smile she was shaking.

 N _o, you are not sharing in my grief. How could you? You didn't even know her. You didn't see her terrible _rage or her ruthlessness or her spite. But neither did you see her_   _fierce loyalty, her complete bravery that was somewhere between_   _dauntlessness and madness. You weren't her best friend for five years._ _So don't you dare say that you're mourning her like I am_. _

Other than the small cluster of friends and family standing in the front row, none of these people had known Rachel while she had lived, but now that she was dead, they had made her theirs. What right did they have to paint her as an angel, as some sort of martyr? The real Rachel had been so much more complicated than that. Cassie knew that she was being unfair, that for the most part the feelings of the mourners were authentic, but how could they tritely try to sum up the enigma that was Rachel? Cassie had tried herself for years but never could. Whatever the case, it wasn't for these strangers to decide. All she knew was that Rachel wasn't the fearless savior she was being commemorated as, but neither was she the heartless monster that they had all so often silently accused her of being. They had asked Cassie if she wanted to speak today, and she had declined. How could she convey what Rachel had meant to her to the millions of people watching? How could she define the indefinable? There was no way to capture Rachel in words and sentences that people would understand. She was a strong person; someone who loved fiercely and fought passionately and felt invincible sometimes. She was a lonely person; someone who felt sad and confused and ashamed and scared. She was a brutal person; someone who grinned before killing and laughed while blood ran down her hands. All these things were true in equal proportions. And most of all, Cassie knew she would never be able to tell them how much she had loved Rachel, loved her despite of, or maybe because of, all these things. Cassie was shaken out of her reverie by the rude squealing of a faulty microphone. The man at the makeshift podium coughed nervously, and mopped his brow, then continued with the conclusion of his speech _._  

"Rachel may have been only a young woman, barely out of childhood, but she demonstrated more courage and patriotism in her sixteen years than most people do in a lifetime. She was a true hero." The crowd clapped enthusiastically, and tears of emotion spilled down hundreds of faces, loud sobs rising up above the people to the clear sky. Cassie looked down at her glossy high heels, and made no sound. _But you don't understand,_ she screamed in her mind. _She never wanted to be a hero._  
  
  
  
 _it was my right to die as well, instead I live; but live in hell_  
  
He had been so long away from his people that it felt almost foreign to be among them again, wearing his military jacket, his new badge of office pinned above his hearts. His parents as well as his closest friends had taken the first ship off the home world to be by his side. As grateful as he was for their support, their presence had caused the painful revelation that he had changed irrevocably. The thought of seeing them again had gotten him through the war, and yet now that they were here he could not think of what to possibly say to them. They  remembered him as a starry-eyed fourteen year old, so excited to be embarking on his first military mission with his famous brother. The future had seemed so deliciously full of possibility back then. And what was he now? He had only just turned seventeen, but he felt a hundred already; old and worn and tired and ready to die. He was not the same boy that they had known throughout their childhoods and grown up with, and he knew that he never would be. They hadn't realized this yet, but they would soon, and Ax dreaded the disappointment in their eyes. He turned his attention to the proceedings in front of him. He and Rachel had never been close, never even liked each other, really. She had a keen sense of ambition that required putting others in their places, and he had been her favourite target for this exercise. For his own part, though he had admired her bravery and determination, he had thought her far too rash and out of control to ever be considered a truly great warrior. At the Academy, he had been taught the merits of coolness and distance; as a soldier he should never take any pleasure in killing, nor satisfaction in his victories. What the renowned military strategists of the ancient ages had written still held true to this day: Plan each breath a thousand times before you take it. Rachel had been the opposite to everything he held sacred: she was fire and blood and passion and _immediacy_. And yet, as he watched the ceremony unfold before him, he felt an overwhelming sensation of guilt and self-disgust. Ax knew with a terrible certainty that it should have been him who had died, and not Rachel. After all, he had been born and bred to be soldier; the notion that it was his duty to die for his people thoroughly ingrained into his psyche. Many of his friends had been killed in action, and he'd always known it was quite likely that he would join their ranks. He had years of military training, and he had always thought himself prepared to make any sacrifices necessary. Rachel, on the other hand, had lived a typical civilian life until this war, _his_  people's war, had been forced on her. It was quite obvious who more deserved to live. And yet, when the time had come, he had let Rachel die instead. It was true enough that she had volunteered herself, that it had made the most sense for her to be the one to go, but it was no excuse. He had been trained to give away his life, but when faced with the actual prospect, he had been too scared, too weak, to make the final sacrifice. He should have stopped her, should have insisted that he be sent instead. But he had been a coward and said nothing, and now it was Rachel who was reduced to a pile of ash in a box and not him. But speaking as a survivor, he couldn't help but think that maybe Rachel was the lucky one after all. He had spent the last three years trying to make it through, and yet now that the war was over, he almost missed it. It was strange, but until now, he had never really had to accept that Elfangor was dead. Though he was ashamed to admit it, throughout the war he had entertained the childish and naive delusion that if he managed to kill Visser Three, everything would somehow go back to how it been before. Now he awoke every morning with a growing knot of bitterness in his chest, because Elfangor really was dead, and nothing would ever change that. It was even worse now that he had no thoughts of revenge with which to occupy himself. Visser Three would be tried before an Inter-Galactic War Crimes Tribunal, and in all likelihood he would be sentenced to live out the rest of his lifespan in his natural form, a fate unarguably worse than death. But the victory that should have been so sweet felt hollow without Elfangor, who had given all of himself for the war effort, and Rachel, who had secured the final checkmate, there to share it. Ax had let the two bravest people he'd ever known die, and he hated himself for it. "Time heals all wounds"- a common human platitude. Among Ax's people, a contradictory phrase was just as common. <<My misery grows deeper every day the rift between us remains.>> Ax tended to think the Andalite's had gotten it right in this case. Each minute he lived was one minute further from the last time he heard Elfangor's quiet laughter, felt his hand on his shoulder. And each year that passed would be one more year between him and Rachel's wicked, beautiful smile. How was that in any way a consolation? How was he supposed to go on living when better people than him were dead and gone too soon? _Ah, but you're a hero now, Ax._ Isn't that all you ever wanted?  He remembered something that Elfangor had told him once - T _here are no heroes, only monsters who fought for_ _the right side_. Thirteen year old Ax had scoffed and rolled his eyes at this. _Easy for you to say, you lucky bastard._ He had thought back then that his brother was just trying to be deblasé in the face of his overwhelming fame. _You were right, Elfangor. It took me years to see it, but you were right all along._ _  
_

  
  
  
 _you don't want to get this way, famous and dumb at an early age_  
  
 Marco had made sure to bring an umbrella, just in case. The forecast that morning had predicted cloudy with a chance of showers, and he wasn't about to got caught unaware in a rainstorm, not with all these cameras watching . Besides, in every movie he'd ever watched, the sky opened up and wept rivers over a field of black umbrellas, raindrops falling so hard that steam rose from the ground.  But his precaution had been unnecessary. It was a beautiful day; fresh and balmy and temperate. (He was a little dissapointed. Rachel had died with so much hate and anger and energy in her, he had half expected a hurricane on the day she was laid to rest). He handed off the umbrella to a member of his entourage. Yes, he had an entourage now. And he'd arrived at the cemetary today in a black stretch limo. It turned out saving the world had definite monetary rewards, and it was kind of awesome. He had made a neat package already, just weeks after the end of the war, appearing on talk shows and new reports. His publicist assured him that there were dollar signs waiting for him everywhere, and the ways to capitalize on his brand were only increasing. There was talk of a book deal, maybe even a possible movie project. Whatever, Marco didn't really care, so long as it added a healthy padding to his bank account. He was scoping out mansions in Santa Monica, and he was going to buy his parents a nice lot nearby. Everywhere he went, people recognized him and flocked around him, crying for autographs, hugs, photos. They loved him; worshiped him even. Marco checked his watch (Rolex, custom made in Switzerland); he had an appearance on Letterman in the evening, and he'd need a few hours in hair and outfitting.  _Really, Marco,_  a voice sneered in his head. _Making money over my_   _grave_?  Marco was about to snap at her aloud, but he caught himself in time. _Go away, Rachel. I deserve this, okay? I've earned it._ And it was true. He'd spent three years of his life in this goddamned war, had his family torn apart because of it. Why shouldn't he reap the benefits now? Where was the shame in that? He seemed to be the only one with this mindset, however. Cassie smiled politely for reporters, but made it clear that she was not going to play their game. Jake had shut down completely, refusing to even put up the guise of functioning normally. Marco glanced over at him, a little further down the row. Their fearless leader was rocking back and forth, muttering to himself under his breath. Ax, who'd always told him that his only dream was to be as big as Elfangor, seemed to be taking no joy in his newfound fame. Tobias had finally gone completely off his rocker. _Is that what you want, Rach? You want me to be a fucked-up, miserable mess just like the rest of them? Well, screw you. I'm not letting you do that to me._ He could see her very clearly then, laughing at him. _Oh, Marco. You're just as lost and crazy as the rest of us, you just know how to hide it better._ She was so beautiful, so terribly, achingly beautiful. She'd always been. Beautiful and hungry and dangerous. Like some fearsome wildcat on the prowl for prey. For a long time, he'd thought Rachel very similar to himself. They were both viciously practical, to the point of ruthlessness. They both were willing to do what had to be done. They were both fighters. It took him a long time, almost to the end of the war, to realize just how different they really were. Marco never fought for the cause, never fought out of a sense of duty. If his mom hadn't turned out to be Visser One, there's a high chance he would have just cut his losses and walked away. The war was personal to him. He had an ability to completely detach himself from the ethics of the issue, to see clearly the line between defeat and victory, and what needed to be done to get there. Living beings became numbers, deaths mere statistics. It was a game, just like the ones at the arcade that he used to play with Jake a thousand years ago, and the only thing that mattered was winning. Perhaps this was heartlessness, perhaps it was pragmatism. Whatever it was that he had, Rachel didn't have it. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it was, but one day he had realized that she'd lost her J. Crew catalogue look. Her cheeks were hollow, and her eyes were hard. There was a simmering desperation that rolled off her in waves. In the heat of a battle she had looked at him, her muzzle soaked in the blood of the Taxxon who's body she had just ripped apart, and said  <<It's so warm.>>  Her voice had a quality of childish wonder in it, and Marco was, at the same time, both repulsed and filled with a deep sense of pity. He had wanted to shake her, to yell at her _Can't you see how fucking crazy you are?_ , but he had also wanted to comfort her, to tell her it was okay. Yes, Rachel had been insane. But only because they needed insanity to win, and she was the only one willing to do it. The main difference between them , he could see now , was that everything he had done had been for himself, whereas Rachel had been incapable of selfishness. On that last mission, she'd known she was going to die. Maybe she'd known it deep inside her from the very first day. And she'd never let it stop her. Marco glanced up at the bright sunlight nestled in the blue sky, and saw her hair, her eyes. It was the first day of high school, and she was laughing and strutting like she ruled the world. They were in a construction site, and she was brave and confident. It was the battle now, and she was saying <<It's so warm.>> _I did okay, right, Marco? I mean, in the end, I wasn't all bad?_ You did good, kid. You were the best of us.  
  
  
  
 _the world is a beast of a burden, you've been holding on a long time_  
  
Sometimes he thinks he was the leader only because there was nothing else left for him to be. They always had their roles; their carefully plotted scripts. Cassie was the moralist, the one who helped them navigate the grey areas between heaven and hell. Marco was the comedian, it was his job to keep the laughs coming  even when the blood started spilling. Ax was a career soldier, smart and savvy and calculating. Rachel had to be brave one, violent and fearless to a fault. Tobias was the token nice guy, sweet and shy and ready to follow orders. From the beginning, it had been obvious who the others were meant to play. Jake was the last man left standing. He was too bland, too inoffensive to be given a complicated character. But someone had to direct the show, right? Keep all these personalities in line? Someone wholesome and all-American , not too this and not too that. _So, whataya say, Jakey boy? You want the part? You're perfect_   _for it!  Yeah, okay. I mean, sure.  Can't be that hard, right?_ It had all seemed so simple at the start, elementary, really. Evil itself was attacking their planet, their country, their families. What choice did they have but to fight? And they were the perfect troupe of comic book heroes to do it. So long as everyone fulfilled their part of the plot, everything was bound to succeed in the end. But somewhere between the first act and the finale, the actors forgot their lines. Cassie, the dependable moral compass, could no longer tell right from wrong. Marco's comedy turned out to be a sick freakshow, and his jokes were falling flat. Tobias receded further and  further away from them, the veil behind his eyes darkening with every new horror he was forced to commit. Even steadfast old Ax had failed him in the end. The hard-hearted, cool-headed warrior turned out to be just a frightened, confused teenager after all. Jake had learned to be a good leader, or at least a competent one . He knew how to use his pieces , knew how to play the game. He'd figured it out, and he had a strategy. But he had no longer known his own hand; and every card was a wildcard. He needed new players. How was he supposed to win a war with these broken, grimy, exhausted things? Rachel was the only one who had never let him down. She'd  remembered, and played her part brilliantly start to finish. She'd gone mad along the way, but maybe that had been in the script the whole time. Besides, they all had. At least she'd kept her promise and stuck to her character. And that was why he'd had to send her; send her on that last mission. The others had become too unpredictable; their intent too unclear. He could not be sure they would have done his will. _And why not you, Jake? Why not you?  Because I am weak._ He could not have done it, could not have gone like Cain to his brother, knowing what must pass between them. If it had come to that, their Fearless Leader would have dropped to his knees and begged for death, anything  so that Tom, even in his demonic, parasitic state, could live. It had to be her. She was the only one insane enough to do it. She hadn't taken on her job lightly, hadn't bothered with an understudy. She was going to give it her all until the curtain dropped.  She had volunteered not because she wanted to give her life away, but because the play had called for it, and she was committed to her performance. They'd  exchanged a look just before she'd spoken, a look full of terrible understanding.  He'd known without asking what she was going to do. She was his own blood, after all.

_So it's all fallen to us, hasn't it, cuz ?_

_Yes. But we knew it would from the start, I think._  
  
 _Well, don't think you can get rid of me so easy, Jake. My madness will be flowing in your veins long after I'm gone._

_Rachel..._ Something desperate had taken hold in her eyes then, and her resolve had wavered, only if for a moment.

 _Does it have to be like this, Jake? Isn't there someother way?_ She was pleading with him for a way out. He would not, could not, give her one.

 _Only you can do this. You have to be the strong one; you've always had to be._  
  
 _This is what you really want, then?_   She'd looked to him for the final confirmation. He'd paused, paused for a second that lasted a thousand years, then nodded ever so slightly; that tiny incline the smallest death sentence in this world's history. She'd smiled at him then; resignation seeping over her features, no fear or anger on her face. It had cut him like a knife, burned like acid. _My cousin, my cousin..._  
  
A preacher was at the podium, representing the Christian side of Rachel's family.  
  
"Far be it from you to do such a thing- to kill the righteous with the wicked, treating the righteous and the wicked alike. Far be it from you!"  
  
 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Forgive me, Rachel. I didn't write this script!_  
  
 _No, but you acted it out, and isn't that the same thing? You played at God, and you sent her off like a lamb to the slaughter, like an innocent to the cross._  
  
 _I had no choice!_  
  
 _There's always a choice, Jake Berenson._  
  
"Shall not the judge of all the Earth do right?

 

_it's only when I hit the ground that it causes all the grief_

He was perched on the highest branch of an elm, waiting. He could see them all, see the hairs growing on their cheeks, the veins shot through their eyes, the broken  vessels splotching their faces. His friends. Lumps of flesh and blood and bone, strung together with veins and cartilage. Humans were so unspeakably ugly. In his mind, he saw the curve of her back, the swell of her thighs, the dip of her collarbones. _Uglyuglyuglybeautiful_. He'd asked Ax once what the direct translation of the Andalite word for lover was. His shorm had looked at him strangely, but had told him nonetheless. _Old same_. Tobias had been confused. _Old same? That doesn't make much sense. Your lover is supposed to be the opposite to you, to fill whatever part of you is lacking. Two halves, one whole, that sort of thing?_  Ax had shrugged at him, a human gesture that he'd taken to with a great fondness. _I understand such things less than you_.  But he could see now that she was gone how alike they really had been. They were both so terrified of feeling; but he chose to hide it by feeling nothing and she by feeling everything. Tobias  felt little empathy for the good of humanity; Rachel had made the good of humanity her personal cause. Either way, they'd both created an ideal to keep them going. They'd  felt so lonely; misunderstood and neglected by those who were supposed to care for them. Was it any wonder that they, with the same needs and same faults, had found refuge in each other?   _And what am I to do, now that my old same is gone? You were the only one who understood me, the only one who never abandoned me._

_You're going to keep on living, Tobias. That's what you're going to do; all that you can do._

 

_But I don't want to be alive._

 

  _Well, too bad._

_You got to die, Rachel. Why can't I as well?_

 

  _Because it's not your time yet._

 

 

  _I don't think I'm strong enough._

 

 

_You've got to be, for my sake._

 

 Naomi turned to him, signalling  clearly with her eyes. He swooped down over the heads of the crowd, to the tombstone where the open case of ash lay. He held her in his talons, pulling her away from this wretched earth, back up to where they belonged. _We may be scorned by this world, but we are the beloved of the sky._

 

_I'm flying!_ She shrieked, joy spilling over her face.  _I'm actually flying!_

 

_It's awesome, isn't it? And it only gets better, once you learn how to ride thermals and control your speed._

 

_This is what freedom feels like!_   He  heard her laugh in his mind, deep and true and uninhibited. 

 

He flew higher and higher, until the cemetery was nothing more than a  blotch of green in a concrete jungle. He had paused for a moment, letting the air buoy him up. The sun was shining brilliantly, and conditions were perfect.

 

  _It's a great day for flying, isn't it, Rach?_

 

 

_You bet! Lets stay here forever, and never come back down._

 

He let his talons loosen, and watched her fall away from him, scattering and drifting apart.

 

_If only we could, Rachel. If only we could._

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment xox <3


End file.
